Jaenelle bounced up beside him, her eyes fixed on his face. Daemon smiled. “Do I meet with your approval?”

She reached up, brushed her fingers against his cheek, and frowned. “Your face is smooth.”

One eyebrow rising, Daemon turned back to the mirror to check his collar. “Hayllian men don’t have facial hair.” He paused. “Neither do Dhemlans or Eyriens, for that matter.”

Jaenelle still frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Daemon shrugged. “Differences in race is all.”

“No.” Jaenelle shook her head. “If you don’t have to take the hair off the way Philip does, why did Graff say you might serve better if you were shaved? Philip does it hims—”

Daemon’s fist hit the top of the dresser, splitting the wood from end to end. He gripped the edges while he fought for control. The bitch. The bitch, to make such a suggestion!

“It means something else, doesn’t it?” Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.

“It’s nothing,” Daemon growled through clenched teeth.

“What does it mean, Daemon?”

“Leave it alone, Jaenelle.”

“Prince.”

Daemon’s fist smashed the dresser again. “If you’re so curious, ask your damn mentor!” He turned away, struggling to regain control. After a moment, he turned again, saying, “Jaenelle, I’m sorry.”

She was already gone.

4 / Hell

Saetan and Andulvar sat around the blackwood desk, drinking yarbarah while waiting for Jaenelle. Saetan had returned to the private study beneath the Hall in order to have some private, concentrated time with Jaenelle for her lessons after discovering that all of the Kaeleer staff seemed to make their way into his public study on some pretense or other just to say hello to her.

“What’s the lesson to be today?” Andulvar asked.

“How should I know?” Saetan replied dryly.

“You’re the one in charge.”

“I’m delighted that someone thinks so.”

“Ah.” Andulvar refilled his glass and warmed the blood wine. “You’re still annoyed about Tersa?”

Saetan studied his silver goblet. “Annoyed? No.” He rested his head against the back of his chair. “But Hell’s fire, Andulvar, trying to keep up with these leaps she makes…the enormity of the raw strength it must take to do some of these things. I want her to have a childhood. I want her to do all the silly things young girls do, whatever they are. I want her to be young and carefree.”

“She’ll never have a normal childhood, SaDiablo. She knows us, the cildru dyathe, Geoffrey and Draca—and Lorn, whatever and wherever he may be. She’s seen more of Kaeleer than anyone else in thousands of years. How can you hope for a normal childhood?”

“Those things are normal, Andulvar,” Saetan said wearily, ignoring Andulvar’s grunt of denial. “Do you wish you’d never met her? Don’t scowl at me that way; I know the answer.” He leaned forward, resting his folded hands on the desk. “The point is, a child plays with the unicorns in Sceval. A child visits friends in Scelt and Philan and Glacia and Dharo and Narkhava and Dea al Mon—and in Hell—and who knows how many other places. I’ve listened to her stories, the innocent, albeit nerve-racking, adventures of young, strong witches growing up and learning their Craft. No matter where she is when she’s doing those things, she’s a child.”